this is a letter to myself.

Honestly, you don’t need to know
why you’re a step slow,
forgetful, anxious to stop
and see where else
you need to go
(but not always how far you’ve come
already).
Misfortunes rob each breath that
fail to escape lungs and
instead clouds up the heart
already filled with a million and one
unspoken junk, strung
together on a
long string of panic.
There isn’t room for
peace – only calamity
and the notion of lost
sanity at all the things
I do wrong.
Even still, you’re
hungry for
rest – no plans echoing
in your mind
to paint a false sense
of doing “it” right –
“adulting.”
But where
is running
taking you?
Self-love
is an act
of healing –
you’re not selfish
for choosing
yourself.
You’re so quick to bring
light to others, but
where is yours?